My Friend Forsakes Me Like A Memory Lost
by Hekate1308
Summary: It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool Mycroft. Or two friends of the consulting detective's. When John confided in Greg that Sherlock might still be alive, the DI realized he would have to betray his and Mycroft's new friendship. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This is for TadPole11, who suggested this angle of the "Mycroft doesn't know Sherlock has survived, but someone else does"-story, and my brain jumped right on it. It's a great idea, and I'm kind of disappointed I didn't come up with it myself. I hope this lives up to your expectations.**

**I don't own anything. **

The first time John started to talk about it, Greg was convinced the loss of Sherlock had finally driven the doctor crazy – there was no other explanation. He didn't tell him, though; they'd both drunk a little too much anyway, and John had always been a friend, ever since he showed up with Sherlock on that crime scene, the one he'd always remember.

John had been through a lot in the past few months, or rather, in the past five months, twenty-four days, fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds (within the first week of Sherlock's – passing on, he had given up the pretence that he didn't consider it one of, if not the greatest tragedy of his life). So, him getting drunk and declaring Sherlock was still alive wasn't surprising at all.

That's what he told himself as he put John in a cab and sent him back to the small flat he now called home (even though he still had a difficult time repressing the impulse to send him to Baker Street), that's what he told himself as he found his own cab, that's what he told himself when he finally arrived home and stared at the file, the certain file that had always been with him, ever since that fateful day (no one had ever asked for it, just like no one had ever asked him why he had consulted Sherlock on so many cases, almost certainly because of Mycroft).

No matter how long he stared at it and tried to convince himself that John Watson was simply lying to himself, he couldn't shake the feeling that the doctor might be on to something.

Simply because Sherlock Holmes was not the type to commit suicide.

Greg had been a police officer for almost thirty years and, of course, knew that desperation could bring people to do many things. He also knew that there wasn't really a "type" for suicide –

But he had seen many cases in his career, even talked a few of bridges and high buildings, and Sherlock running away only to jump to his death later –

It didn't fit.

Sherlock had been an addict when he first met him; he had relapsed several times before finally getting clean; he had lived through so many dangerous situations that Greg couldn't even remember all of them.

And this man was supposed to have committed suicide, just like that? Yes, he had been declared a fraud. But Sherlock had lived for a challenge, and clearing himself of the charges would have been one.

And, furthermore, he would never be able to believe that the consulting detective would kill himself in front of his best friend.

Despite what most people – especially Anderson and Donavan – might think, Sherlock had cared about John, more than about anyone else (and he certainly didn't feel a pang of jealousy at this thought). He would never force the doctor to witness his death – it would be a "bit not good" as John had so often said.

He had come so far when he realized what he was thinking; he was allowing John's hope to enter his head, and hope, in his experience, was rarely a good thing. He had seen too much; relatives that clung to the hope that their missing family member was alive; hostages that believed everything would turn out well; and –

And he had hoped, until he'd been called, until he'd realized that he would never see Sherlock Holmes again, that the consulting detective would find a way to prove he'd been innocent all along.

Otherwise – why would he have escaped? Why should he run away only to commit suicide? He could have done that in a cell.

Greg wouldn't deny that he had been more annoyed than anything else when Sherlock and John had run away; he would have proved that Sherlock had been right, he would have –

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not even that he had tried to hinder the search for Sherlock in any way possible, not even that he had driven to St. Bart's as soon as he got the message, only to see a broken John Watson being escorted to a car. John hadn't forgiven him immediately; he had needed two months to even speak with him, but eventually, he had said that "He understood why people would think it possible Sherlock was a fraud".

It hadn't made him feel better. He hadn't known how to make John believe that he had never considered Sherlock a fraud, that he'd always been sure that he was a genius. In the end, he'd been satisfied with him and John being friends again, meeting in a pub every now and then –

Until John had started talking about how Sherlock was obviously still alive.

Greg, once he'd gone through the file yet again and decided there was really no reason to believe John's theory (much as he and the traitorous hope that somehow wouldn't leave ever since the doctor had broached the subject this evening wanted to), wondered whether he should tell Mycroft that John was obviously having a harder time coping with what had happened than they thought. Ultimately he decided against it because it was John's business and because –

His friendship, or whatever to call it with the elder Holmes, was strange enough.

He didn't even know when or how it had started; Mycroft had been kidnapping him in regular intervals ever since he'd made Sherlock's acquaintance, of course, and for a long time, nothing had changed.

Until Sherlock had committed suicide, when Mycroft had all of a sudden decided that to kidnap him once a week was the best way to get information about the investigation in Sherlock's old cases, or how John and Mrs. Hudson were doing, even if he could have found out all of that very easily on his own. It had taken Greg a while to realize that Mycroft was simply lonely, even if the elder Holmes certainly wouldn't admit it.

He had only then become aware that no one had thought about Mycroft. They had all been so concerned about John, and the aftermath of Sherlock's suicide, and the funeral –

They hadn't even spared his brother a thought.

So the next time Mycroft had him collected, he suggested they get a drink before he'd even said hello.

Mycroft had raised an eyebrow and said nothing for a few seconds; Greg had just started contemplating where they would hide his body when the elder Holmes had nodded.

True, Greg had meant at a pub or a café and not at the Diogenes Club (he'd been there a few times in the past and had always felt underdressed and uncomfortable) but he would take what he could get. And at least the brandy was good.

He'd got Mycroft to talk after the second glass – there was no point to return to the office anyway, the Chief Superintendent had made sure that he didn't get any important or interesting (interesting – did he really just...?) cases until each and every of Sherlock's old ones had been re-examined. So far, he had been proven correct every time, to Greg's not-so-secret delight.

That wasn't what they had talked about, though, in fact, Greg couldn't really remember everything they had discussed on that strange afternoon, mainly because it had been everything from his failed marriage to Mycroft's problem of finding good employees (naturally, he hadn't said what for).

That had been two months ago. Nowadays, after they had exchanged texts, Mycroft showed up at Greg's with a bottle, or Greg drove to Mycroft's after work, sometimes he even made his way to the Diogenes Club.

He wasn't sure what they were exactly; somehow, calling them "friends" seemed –

Sherlock had been his friend. He was sure of that. It didn't matter how many times the consulting detective had forgotten his first name, or belittled his intelligence. There had been an inexplicable bond between them ever since he set a young drug addict free who'd been arrested after he had decided he just had to break into a crime scene. A bond that had made him look after him on danger nights until (and occasionally after) John had shown up, had made him offer Sherlock to be an unofficial consultant. It was also the reason that Sherlock being a fraud had never crossed his mind; he'd had to ask Donavan what the other possibility for him finding the children could be, and even when they had given him so many reasons that he had to go to the Chief Superintendent, he hadn't believed for one second that Sherlock could be anything other than the always-right, impolite, kind-of-sociopathic genius he had always declared to be.

He blamed himself for what had happened, how could he not. If he had been as logical as Sherlock, it wouldn't have been a problem; if he hadn't gone to the Chief Superintendent, someone else would have, or Donavan and Anderson would have gone without him. This thought didn't really help.

Maybe this was the reason that had made him befriend Mycroft; he wasn't the only one who had unwillingly played a part in Moriarty's game, after all. According to John – who still refused to talk to Mycroft and avoided mentioning him as much as possible – the elder Holmes had given Moriarty all the information he needed to make everyone believe Sherlock was a fraud. Greg didn't know why, but he assumed Mycroft had to have had a good reason, probably the safety of the country. And he, other than John, still thought that he had cared for his brother, was in fact grieving and feeling guilty.

So they talked, even though not about Sherlock, or about their roles in his death.

Greg hadn't mentioned this development to John – he didn't know how the doctor would react. As far as he knew, John wasn't aware that he still had contact with Mycroft, and there was no reason he should think so; he probably assumed that Mycroft had disappeared from the lives of all of Sherlock's friends as soon as his brother's life had ended.

Greg didn't want to lose John as a friend – and even though he considered his opinion on Mycroft a little unfair, he couldn't help but see his arguments – so he didn't mention it. Mycroft knew all about the evenings he and John spent together. But it was Mycroft's job to know everything, and he had yet to say anything about it.

Greg maintained this balance between his friendships – wasn't it typical that the two best, if not only, friends he had had come out of his relationships with Sherlock? – even after John had started talking about his belief that Sherlock was still alive. Maybe it was just a phase before he accepted the consulting detective's death and moved on.

It wasn't. John kept insisting that Sherlock was out there, somewhere, doing God knew what – he seemed to have an idea, but didn't go into details – every time they met for a pint, and Greg was glad that they had picked a pub that had no security cameras inside. John was desperate and perhaps delusional, but he didn't want to see him locked up somewhere, and he wasn't doing any harm – except himself, that was, and Greg tried in vain to convince him of that.

"John, why are you so sure that Sherlock's alive?"

"Why do you keep on insisting that he's dead?"

"Because he is".

"He isn't".

The conversation ended like this every time, and Greg was close to finally telling someone –

And then John showed him proof and he began to wonder if he was the insane one.

**Author's note: I realized I had to flesh out Greg's and Mycroft's relationship before the plot started – I know, me, rambling in a story? It's unheard of.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: I have followers! I am so happy.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

As it turned out, the proof wasn't much of a proof; but it was enough to make Greg question – everything,

John grinned, for the first time since Greg could remember – or since Sherlock jumped, which was really the same thing – and handed him several newspaper articles.

Greg looked at them – it would have been impolite not to – and read:

_Suspected leader of drug cartel disappeared_

_Human-trafficking syndicate stops operating _

_Australian authorities arrest suspected hit man _

At first, he'd tried to be understanding but firm.

"John – "

Before he could say another word, John had shown him several other newspaper articles, from newspapers all around the world, and demanded, "Do you really think someone else could have caught all these people? Do you really think someone else could have caught them?"

"Yes! John, there are many crime-fighters out there – why do you think it has to be Sherlock?"

He felt a twinge of satisfaction when John flinched at the way he spat out the consulting detective's name. In the next moment, he felt guilty. He had just pronounced the name of his friend like so many others had, uncaring and frustrated. That wasn't the right way to do it.

And John –

John deserved better do. He had opened up to him, had told him his crazy theory. And he should be supportive or at least understanding. The past few months had been hell for John. Greg knew. They had been for him too.

John suddenly started gathering the newspaper articles and carefully putting them back in the folder he'd brought with him, and Greg only understood what was happening when the doctor stood up.

John was leaving.

Greg couldn't allow that. As far as he knew, John barely left his flat anymore – no wonder when he kept looking through articles on the internet, hoping to find news from Sherlock – and there were only a few people he still talked to. He couldn't let John become an eremite.

He grabbed John's wrists just as the doctor was turning around, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"John, I – " Greg sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that. Please stay".

John didn't say anything, but he sat down again, staring at the table in a perfect imitation of Sherlock when he was sulking.

Greg's heart clenched in his chest, but he forced the memories away and started talking.

"It's just – it's hard to believe. John, I saw his body. You saw his body. Molly did the autopsy. We went to the funeral – "

John shook his head in a rather child-like manner, and Greg caught himself wondering whether he'd put his hands over his ears any moment to block out what he didn't want to hear.

"But – Greg, all of a sudden crime bosses disappear or get arrested, cartels and gangs stop operating all over the world – why now?"

Greg tried to find an answer that wouldn't shatter John. It wasn't easy. He'd sat alone in his flat, plagued by nightmares (he hadn't talked about it, but Greg had seen the dark circles under his eyes), day after day the same dull routine, until he'd found something to live for (again) and the DI would have to take that away from him.

Unless John was right.

Greg realized what he was thinking only when he snatched the folder out of John's hand and started looking through it. John didn't protest, apparently believing that Greg was starting to see a pattern.

He was.

Bloody hell. John was right that suspiciously many crime bosses or hit men or just criminals had been arrested or disappeared from the face of the earth –

True, the pattern was random at best – this continent, another continent, sometimes two arrests in the same town but months apart – and yet – if Sherlock didn't want to know anyone he was alive, wasn't this what he would do? He wouldn't want to draw attention to himself.

Greg shot John a (thankfully unseen) admiring glance. There weren't many who would have noticed all of this, and even less would have caught the significance. John must have picked up something, living with Sherlock for so long –

Oh, God. He was really starting to believe this strange, impossible theory.

Maybe it wasn't so impossible. No. He was supposed to help John, not to make his – mania worse by starting to believe him.

But –

As much as he tried to be rational –

He had to admit that all of these disappearances and arrests were certainly –

No, it couldn't be.

Then again, who did he know who loved strange cases and vigilance? Who didn't always obey the law when bringing someone to justice?

No. It was impossible.

And yet, if it was as John thought, and Sherlock was alive, slowly dismantling –

The only reason John was convinced there was something like "Moriarty's web" to begin with was Sherlock's claim at the consulting criminal's trial. Maybe the doctor was simply crazy, maybe –

But then – Greg preferred to be crazy. He would rather live in a world where Sherlock Holmes existed.

And, really, wasn't it a strange coincidence that suddenly cartels and bosses and criminals all over the world stopped operating? It may just be the product of John Watson's hopeful mind –

Or he might be right, and Sherlock was still out there. Alone.

Strange as it sounded, Greg knew which option he preferred.

Sherlock Holmes alive was better than Sherlock Holmes dead. No matter what everyone else thought.

He was just as insane as John, apparently, but what did it matter?

"So" he asked, "How do we contact him?"

John looked up from the articles, surprised.

"You believe me?"

"I prefer to believe you" Greg answered honestly, and John smiled.

"I understand. Trust me, I do. At first, I wasn't sure if I was right or if I was mad, and then I decided if this was madness – " he shrugged and now it was Greg's turn to smile understandingly.

Even if they were wrong, he thought, and there was a great chance that they were, at least this hope, theory, whatever you might call it, had brought John Watson out of the depression he'd been in since Sherlock – disappeared. The old sparkle was back in eyes.

"So" he repeated his question "how do we contact him?"

John's smile fell and he shook his head. "I've been thinking about it for weeks – I just don't know. Actually it was one of the reasons – " He stopped and Greg was thankful all of a sudden that the doctor hadn't thought of a solution. Even if he was wrong – at least they were wrong together, now.

"Sherlock's phone?" he suggested without even realizing he'd spoken before the words had left his mouth.

John looked at him. "What about it?"

"Where is it?" When the doctor continued to stare at him uncomprehendingly, Greg explained, "I thought all of Sherlock's belongings were given to you after – "

John nodded, making an impatient sign for Greg to stop. "I know" he said, slowly, "Molly gave everything to me and not to – his brother". He never mentioned Mycroft's name (he rarely mentioned him at all) and Greg swallowed. Should he tell John about his friendship (or whatever he might call it) with Mycroft? Even if Sherlock was alive – it didn't change that Mycroft had told Moriarty his life story. There was a good chance that John would leave and not come back. He decided against it. That was a conversation for another day.

"She didn't give me his phone, though" John continued, unaware of what Greg was thinking. "I never noticed..." He looked at the DI.

"I remember Sherlock throwing it down on the roof before – before – it happened. Was it recovered?"

Greg shook his head. "No. I have a copy of the file".

"Stealing files now, are we, Inspector?" It was the first time John had teased him since that day, and Greg couldn't help but grin. "I copied it. There's a difference."

"Of course there is". John was getting excited. "Greg, he loved this phone. He never went anywhere without it. He would have taken it with him, if only for a – " He stopped and bit his lip, looking down at the table. Greg could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.

"A connection" he finished softly and John nodded once, twice before taking a deep breath and looking up, determined.

"He would have shut it off, of course" he said, "But we know Sherlock – "

"He would shut it on at regular intervals" Greg interrupted. "He might say he's a sociopath – but he wouldn't be able to help it. The temptation would be too strong. Plus – " Now it was his turn to look everywhere but in the doctor's eyes "I texted him a few times after – after. I couldn't help myself".

"I did it too" John said softly. "For a while. He never answered, though. How do we get him to answer?"

There were no doubts in John's mind, Greg realized. He still wasn't sure; he had chosen to believe because he so desperately wanted to. There was no "if" for John, however. He would be crushed if Sherlock should be –

But he would deal with that when it happened. When – if – there was no answer and they had to live with the fact that Sherlock was dead. Again.

"We send him a text that he has to answer – " Greg mumbled. A thought occurred to him.

"John – the last article, the newest one you could find – what was it about again?"

"Brazil" he answered immediately. "A drug cartel stopped operating".

Greg nodded and took out his phone. When John raised an eyebrow, he said, "I'm sure Mycroft pays closer attention to your texts than mine".

He didn't mention that he was of this opinion because Mycroft hardly needed to look after him, not when they met at least twice a week.

John apparently believed him without a reason, though, and nodded.

Greg typed (slowly, as usual; he had always called Sherlock because he had problems with this tiny buttons) and showed John the message before sending it.

_Thinking about making a trip to Brazil. Would love a bit of sun"._

John smiled. "Perfect. No one except Sherlock would understand it".

Greg nodded and sent the text. He laid the phone on the table and asked, "How long?"

He knew John would understand him. They had to wait; Sherlock might only turn on the phone once a week perhaps even –

"A month" the doctor decided, staring at the phone as if his life depended on it ringing, and perhaps it did.

Very well, Greg thought. A month.

A month had almost passed; a month full of meetings with John and Mycroft (trying to cheer one up and get the other to talk, sometimes Greg felt like a therapist); a month full of tea with Mrs. Hudson and cases he wasn't allowed to investigate; a month of hope slowly trickling away.

It was the last day. Greg was sitting in his living room and sighed. That was it, then. John was slowly going insane, and worse, the DI was feeding his delusion –

His phone chimed.

**Author's note: Sorry for the shorter chapter. Oh, and a cliff hanger. I know – I never do that, right?**

**You can also now find me on tumblr – under the same name – just in case you can't get enough of my ramblings.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: More followers and reviews. Someone's making my day. Thank you.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

Greg half-expected the text to come from John, declaring that Sherlock must have lost the phone or that the month wasn't up – there were still several hours to go – but it wasn't.

In fact, he didn't recognize the number.

It was just a short text but he needed several minutes to compose himself after he had read it.

_I wouldn't recommend Brazil. You prefer a more temperate climate. _

Only Sherlock Holmes would manage to sound somewhat caring and yet condescending in the space of ten words. Greg read the text again and again. This was the proof he and John had been waiting for. Sherlock was alive. Good God –

Sherlock was _alive. _For almost eight months, they had grieved for a man who was not dead. Greg wasn't angry, not yet; that would come later. Right now, he tried not to burst out in tears in relief. Relief that he wasn't guilty of the suicide of the greatest man he'd ever known, relief that John –

John. Greg had known for ten minutes that Sherlock was alive and John didn't. He immediately called the doctor. His voice sounded strained.

"I know what you want to say – "

"John" Greg began breathlessly and then stopped. He didn't know what to say; he didn't know how. He seemed to have lost the ability to communicate in any other way than to breathe his friend's name into the phone and hope he would understand.

"Greg, the month isn't over yet. I know – "

"John". He said it stronger this time, louder, and the doctor fell silent.

"Greg?" he finally asked, sounding almost scared, "Did he – "

"Yes".

"Are you sure?"

"Yes". He was. He had known Sherlock Holmes long enough to recognize a text from him. No one else would have sent it.

John was silent. Greg waited for a reaction, a deep breath, anything really, but the doctor didn't make any kind of noise, and he was opening his mouth to ask if he was alright when he heard a sniffle and realized that John was crying.

Then John, still trying to control the tears, said, "I am going to kill him".

Greg could hear the smile behind the words and smiled too.

"Need any help with hiding the body?" he asked, and John laughed, the first truly free laugh since Sherlock had – since Sherlock had gone off to fight Moriarty's web (it would take some getting used to, remembering that Sherlock was alive, but really, Greg couldn't care less).

"What did he say?" he asked, and Greg suddenly realized that he hadn't yet told John what exactly Sherlock had written.

He told him and could practically feel John shake his head at his phone.

"He'll never change" the doctor said with a certain fondness in his voice and Greg agreed.

John added, "Write to him".

"And what, exactly?" he demanded to know. That Sherlock was alive – miraculously alive – was one thing, but what could he answer? "I'm glad you are alive" sounded strange, to say the least, plus it would probably get Mycroft's attention (he didn't think that the British Government had stopped his surveillance entirely because they were friends – he certainly still got a memorandum of every strange or unusual activity, which was one of the reasons he'd kept the text so utterly normal, and everyone would have thought he was still grieving anyway, especially since he had sent several texts to Sherlock right after – whatever it had been). And yet he couldn't think of anything different –

"What do you need?" John interrupted his thoughts, and it took Greg a few moments to realize that John hadn't asked him but suggested a possible text to Sherlock. It made sense. The consulting detective was alone and fighting against a big organization; they had to whatever they could to help him. Just like they always had.

"Alright" Greg agreed, "but tomorrow I'm buying a burn phone".

"Scared of someone finding out?"

"Of course".

They laughed and John told him he was on his way – not that Greg could blame him, naturally he wanted to see the text with his own eyes, the proof that he'd been right, that he wasn't mad.

In the meantime, Greg sent the text just as John had suggested – and Sherlock had always preferred simple matter-of-fact texts anyway.

He didn't expect an answer, but it came.

_Information. Also, you should purchase a burn phone._

Greg shook his head, grinning, because this was typically Sherlock; he always made one ask for specifics instead of being precise. Then again, maybe – and Greg couldn't deny that the thought was enough to make his breath catch in his throat – Sherlock was enjoying this as much as he was because he hadn't had any human contact in all this time. Eight months. Eight months without his friends, his work, his city. Yes, he would be angry – but he'd always understand how Sherlock must have felt. It couldn't have been easy, not even for a sociopath (not that he'd ever really believed Sherlock to be one; sociopaths rarely had to use drugs to make them forget how complicated and difficult their life was, and they certainly didn't befriend ex-army doctors). Sherlock was all alone and he was fighting against perhaps the most powerful criminal organization the Empire had ever seen.

Greg decided to humour him and simply typed,

_What information?_

The answer came quickly, confirming his suspicion that Sherlock missed his home, his friends.

_Finding out everything about the web slows me down. I'm sure you could find a way to send me information on whatever part I'm working on right now._

Greg smiled, shaking his head. Of course that was what Sherlock had meant.

Before he could answer another text came in.

_I need all the information you can find about a certain Timothy Pend. _

Greg chose not to ask why; it was enough that Sherlock asked for the information, it always had been. Of course he would help him.

John knocked at his door, and Greg was surprised to find it had only been twenty minutes. John must have taken a cab and told the driver to go as fast as possible. He opened the door and the doctor burst in without waiting for an invitation. Greg gave him the phone without comment and watched as John drank in the texts.

It was a strange sight, to see this strong almost breaking down because of a few words on a phone display; but he quickly recovered and read through them again, his face lighting up more and more with every repeat. John Watson had found his purpose again. Believing Sherlock to be alive and searching frantically for news articles had been a meagre substitute at best; now he had the proof. And he wouldn't rest until Sherlock was home again, Greg was certain of that.

John reluctantly gave him the phone back and asked, "When are you going to start?"

He didn't have to ask what the doctor meant. John's primary concern was to get Sherlock home, and he would not take kindly to anything standing in the way.

"First thing tomorrow" he answered. "I need to access the computer in my office, and I don't want to draw attention by coming in the middle of the night". John was about to protest when he added, quietly, "I'm not exactly the Chief Superintendent's favourite DI right now, you know".

John closed his mouth, then nodded, looking guilty.

Greg's eyes softened. John had only thought of Sherlock – naturally, there was no reason he should think of him or his career. Not when Sherlock was in Brazil (or, by now, somewhere else), without anyone he could trust.

John looked at the floor and took a deep breath before meeting Greg's gaze and smiling.

"I'd say a little celebration is in order. Got any booze?"

Greg always had beer in the fridge. Neither of them slept that night; instead, they spent the night talking and convincing themselves again and again that this was real, that Sherlock had texted, that he was alive, that everything was going to be alright.

It was only when John mentioned Mrs. Hudson, regretting that he couldn't tell her since Sherlock obviously wanted his survival to be kept secret that Greg realized he would have to lie to Mycroft.

Well, maybe not lie; but he would have to keep quiet about something, and really, was that really that different from lying?

He would have to lie to the most observant man he'd ever met.

He'd have to lie to Sherlock's brother.

Mycroft, who was grieving in a way nobody could understand or help him with because he was keeping it all in; Mycroft, who had tried to protect his brother, who had finally made a (seemingly) unpardonable mistake and was wrecked by remorse. He hadn't said so – and he never would – but Greg could tell.

And he would be able to make all this grief, all this guilt disappear with a few words he wouldn't be allowed to say. Plus he wasn't a good liar.

John, he knew, looking at the eager, excited look on the doctor's face, would have no problems with it. It wasn't that John wasn't fond of his friends; but Sherlock wanted his survival to be kept secret and that was enough for him. Maybe he would understand Greg's problems – the DI would have to tell him about Mycroft first, though, and even with the joy of Sherlock living, John would most likely not take it too well.

"Greg?" John looked at him, puzzled, and the DI realized that he probably didn't look particularly joyful at the moment.

He smiled and shook his head. "Don't worry, I'm just – I'm tired. It has been a long night".

"Yes" John agreed, looking out of the window where the first signs of dawn were slowly appearing. He grinned, showing no signs of tiredness. "I can say I've had worse, though".

Greg nodded and John left after he'd promised him to call as soon as he had the information Sherlock wanted.

He drove to the Yard as soon as he could – he never came in before seven when he didn't have a case, anything else would look suspicious – and began researching Timothy Pend.

Of course Sherlock would be looking for a mafia hit man on his own. The only reason the British police even knew that he existed was because, a few years ago, someone had walked in on an assassination attempt and it had got messy, so messy that he had cut himself and they'd been able to identify the killer who was by this time long gone. Ironically, he had offered the case to Sherlock, who had told him that it was solved anyway and that he wasn't going to leave his flat just to catch a hit man.

He quickly sent Sherlock everything he could find in several texts and called John.

"I found it."

"Any answer?" the doctor asked eagerly just as Greg's text alert rang out.

"Wait".

_Thank you. I'll keep you informed of anything else I might need._

His conviction that Greg would do what he asked when he asked didn't make him overlook the "Thank you". Sherlock had rarely thanked him, and it gave him an idea of just how lonely his consulting detective was.

He purchased a burn phone in the afternoon and sent the number to the one Sherlock had been texting from.

And it was then, and only then, that things got really complicated.

Because just as he was putting the burn phone away, Mycroft called him on his old one.

"Hello, Gregory. Would you care for a drink after work?"

Greg could hear that Mycroft was tired and needed company – and if Mycroft allowed his frustration to seep into his voice, he must have had a difficult day indeed – so he said yes before he realized what that meant.

Seemed like he would have to start lying sooner than he'd thought.

**Author's note: So the lying to Mycroft is going to begin. After three chapters. This is going to be longer than thought. Again.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: I have to warn you, this is going to be a rather short chapter because, alas, too little time. Thank you for following and reviewing. It means a lot.**

**I don't own anything. **

At least he didn't have to tell John where he went; the doctor had a shift at the clinic and was too busy to wonder where his one friend in the world (really, it was ridiculous, either he betrayed Mycroft or John and Sherlock) went.

When he left the Yard in the afternoon – he still stayed until at least six o' clock, even though it was unnecessary since he wasn't asked on his opinion on cases or anything, really – a limousine was waiting for him. He hadn't expected anything different; Mycroft usually sent limousines to pick him up, just as he had done when his brother had still been –

No, that wasn't right, Mycroft's brother was still alive. He only didn't know it. And Greg had to lie to him about it.

He got into the limousine and wondered what he would tell the elder Holmes. Both Sherlock and Mycroft had always been living life detectors. That said, Greg was certain he could pretend he was nervous because of his job or his ex-wife or something else; if Mycroft would believe him, though, was a wholly different manner.

There was only one way to find out. He got in the limousine, greeted the driver as usual and let himself be taken to Mycroft.

The elder Holmes lived in a mansion he'd bought as soon as he'd finished his studies, as he'd told Greg after a few too many brandies. Greg always felt underdressed while ringing Mycroft's bell, even though there was no reason to; and yet, knowing just what the British Government was capable of –

Mycroft opened the door himself, as was his custom. He'd never allowed any staff in his house, preferring to do all the tasks – cleaning the floor, cooking, ironing – himself. Mycroft Holmes didn't trust anyone –

Except Greg Lestrade, apparently.

He gave him a weak smile. He'd decided on the way that he would hide his discomfort with his tiredness – and he'd every right to be tired, after all, he had stayed up the whole night.

He entered. Mycroft said immediately, "You spent the whole night talking to John."

Greg nodded, hanging up his coat. The doctor's name rarely fell between them – not since this... friendship had begun. At first, when he'd still been kidnapped, he had had to answer questions about him, but now Mycroft seemed to be as reluctant to talk about John as John was to talk about the elder Holmes.

On any other day, Greg would have been glad because this could mean Mycroft was slowly coming to terms with his guilt, now he would have preferred if the elder Holmes hadn't picked today of all days to mention his friend.

Perhaps he wouldn't do it again, and sometimes they barely talked anyway. It was difficult to find a subject they could talk about, with Greg effectively on desk duty, Mycroft's job being top secret and neither of them really having a private life.

Well, there was a subject Mycroft certainly would be interested in, but he couldn't very well broach that.

Thankfully, it was one of the days they didn't really speak, so Greg just sipped his brandy and kept Mycroft company. In his current state, silence was good; silence was safe. Even Mycroft Holmes couldn't figure out just by looking at him that Sherlock was alive, if only because he thought it impossible.

In between John and researching and Mycroft and worrying, he hadn't realized that he'd thought it impossible too, that he still did, that it was a miracle that Sherlock was texting him –

When he come home, the realization finally hit him and he found himself crying on the sofa, the tears he'd managed to hold back when Sherlock had answered no longer to be denied.

He'd just managed to regain the hold on his emotions – and at least some of his dignity – when there was a knock on the door.

Of course John had to come, if only to look at the texts again and again.

"I wish..." he mumbled before shaking his head.

"What?" Greg asked, noting not for the first time that John had started to get lost in his head quite as much as Sherlock.

The doctor shook his head again. "Nothing. It's just – I would like to have contact with him, too. I'm sorry – "

"Don't apologize. I understand".

He truly did. John and Sherlock belonged together, and the doctor couldn't text him now that he knew him to be alive, because Mycroft's surveillance on him had been continued after Sherlock's disappearance, even if Greg was sure that it was Anthea who managed it.

John gave Greg the phone back, albeit reluctantly, and asked to be told every detail about the hit man Sherlock was chasing.

In retrospect, fulfilling this wish might not have been the best idea. John sat down, on his face a strange mixture between panic and anger.

"And he's chasing this guy down all by himself".

"We don't know that" Greg tried to argue.

John laughed bitterly. "Greg, he didn't even trust us to accompany him. Do you really think he found a friend to hunt down the web with?"

Greg had to agree he had a point. There was one thing he didn't agree with, however.

"I don't think it had to do with trust..."

"What then?"

John was in one of his dark moods again, the joy that Sherlock was alive replaced by the realization that the consulting detective hadn't taken him along, and if this whole situation hadn't been so utterly serious, Greg would have laughed at its absurdity. John was not only angry because Sherlock hadn't let him know he was alive – he was angry because Sherlock hadn't taken him along, hadn't dragged him in a fight against murderers and gang bosses and a life off the grid.

And he didn't even realize how strange this was. Maybe it wasn't strange, not really. John Watson was an adrenaline junkie, and he had been living without his drug for over eight months now. Not only this, but since yesterday he knew that he could have it.

"John – " Greg began, slowly, "he asked you to move in with him the moment he saw you. You shot a guy for him after knowing him for a day. Do you really think he doesn't trust you?"

John sighed and hung his head.

"I know. It's – I – " he broke off and sprung up.

"What is it?" Greg asked, alarmed. John was staring at him like he had seen a ghost.

"How did you know?"

"Know what?"

John continued to stare at him.

"Greg. How did you know I shot Jeff Hope?"

Greg thought about what he had said and grew pale.

He'd never talked about Jeff Hope's death with Sherlock or John – but he'd always known who was responsible, from the moment he'd seen the doctor at the crime scene. Sherlock had never before (or after) stopped in the midst of his deductions, not resting until the culprit was behind bars. One look at John and he'd stopped talking.

And John – the way he'd stood there, like a soldier after an accomplished mission.

"I always knew" he finally answered. "It wasn't difficult to figure out".

John sat down again, shaking his head.

"Why didn't you arrest me?"

"Because I was glad Sherlock had someone looking out for him" Greg replied honestly. He could have arrested John then; he had chosen not to, even though he hadn't known him then. But all he thought of was that Sherlock had finally found a friend, a flatmate, and he'd been relieved, so very relieved.

John smiled.

"Sherlock gives you to little credit".

Greg didn't know what to say, so he was silent.

John left shortly afterwards and Greg fought the temptation to send Sherlock a text demanding what he thought he was putting them all through by telling himself that Sherlock was suffering to.

This new life lasted for about three weeks, Greg having brandy with Mycroft while being awkwardly silent (and thanking God that that had always been the foremost characteristic of their friendship) John coming over whenever he knew Greg to be home, Sherlock asking for information.

And then Sherlock demanded information about a human-trafficking syndicate in Portugal that didn't even exist officially.

_How do you expect me to find that? _he typed. The answer came quickly.

_You always got along with my brother. But tell him nothing._

Sherlock was expecting him to wriggle information out of Mycroft (in itself almost impossible). Sherlock was expecting him to get information – he would have to –

This wasn't lying anymore. For Mycroft, it would certainly amount to betrayal.

**Author's note: This is taking a different direction than I thought it would – once again. It's also darker than I intended. And there's a lot of John – but how can I help it? It's John.**

**Again, sorry for the short chapter. And the later update. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: Shorter chapter again I fear because of less time – and I had a crisis of faith in the middle of typing. Don't worry, though; I'm just being whiny and rambling again. Sorry for that. **

**Also, I have more followers than reviews, which is awesome in a strange way. Or maybe I'm just weird.**

**I don't own anything. **

Greg, after some deliberation, decided not to tell John about the last text, or rather, tell him after he'd sent the information to Sherlock. If he got it.

He knew what John's advice would be; he knew what the doctor would think. Do whatever is necessary. Mycroft wasn't worth the trouble, at least in John's opinion. And Greg could understand him. He really could. Even though Sherlock had survived, John still considered Mycroft the one who'd betrayed him to Moriarty, the one who'd helped him defeat – no, not defeat. He was still alive. But somehow Greg doubted this would make much of an impression on John. Mycroft had given Moriarty what he needed, and that was that.

He couldn't very well tell him that he understood Mycroft because he too had betrayed Sherlock in a way, that he too had failed in protecting him. John wouldn't believe him – or rather, would deny that he and Mycroft had anything in common – and he couldn't risk John's friendship, not when everything the doctor lived for were his texts to Sherlock. John had been living an entirely normal life for far too long; and now that he knew Sherlock was alive he would crave the excitement the consulting detective provided more than ever.

Betraying Mycroft would be a small price – if a price at all – in his opinion.

But Mycroft was Greg's friend, or something like it, and he would have to get the information out of him somehow.

Perhaps he could get it in any other way – but how many people did he know who had access to information about crime syndicates that didn't even exist officially?

For a while – it was clear he wouldn't get any sleep this night either, so why bother? He'd just stay up and think – he considered asking Anthea. If there was one person able to trick Mycroft Holmes – apart from his little brother – it was her. She could get him the information without getting any unwanted attention. But Anthea was not only good at her job, but also loyal – as loyal as John was to Sherlock, as Greg wished he could be to anyone – and she would never do something like this. True, he had only spoken to her a few times, mostly when he'd been frustrated to be picked up yet again, but that had been often enough to realize where her priorities lay.

Anthea wasn't an option then, He didn't know any other member of Mycroft's staff, however, and that meant –

He would have to do it himself.

But how? He couldn't ask Mycroft; the elder Holmes would immediately guess what he wanted (if not necessarily why) and therefore not only not give him the answer, but most likely have him brought to a secure location and interview him.

He wasn't asking him, then.

He couldn't hack into his system; aside from the fact that he already had trouble with sending a text from his phone and knew no one who'd be able to hack into the British Government – Mycroft would notice. Mycroft noticed everything.

So he couldn't ask, and he couldn't hack into his computer –

There was always the old-fashioned way, though.

He'd never been a good actor – in fact, one of his first conversations with Sherlock had been exactly about that. He smiled briefly as he thought about it.

"_So, when are you going to let me out, Sergeant?"_

"_I'm not yet convinced you are innocent". _

"_Please, it's obvious. Just let me go so I can focus on finding the real murderer?"_

He'd been a police man long enough to pick up a few tricks, though, and he was reasonably sure that he would be capable of finding the file in Mycroft's computer if he managed to sneak into his office. Not that he ever –

Did he have to sneak into it? The thought occurred to him rather suddenly; what if he officially visited Mycroft at a time he wasn't in? He didn't spend much time at his office anyway; surely he could drop by and pretend to wait for him.

If Mycroft trusted him enough to let Anthea know he was to be let into his office unsupervised –

In other words, if he trusted him enough to be betrayed. Greg wasn't sure. He wasn't sure whether to hope Mycroft trusted him or not, either.

In the next moment, he asked himself why he was worrying to begin with. It wasn't like he and Mycroft were friends, or as close as he and Sherlock.

And yet – they had clicked. Not like he and the consulting detectives had, all those years ago, but there was a connection between them, and Greg didn't want to lose that.

If he did nothing, he might lose Sherlock though and that was just unacceptable.

So he resigned himself to what he had to do and settled down to wait for an opportunity.

It came sooner than he'd thought it would.

As it turned out, the Chief Superintendent decided to assign him to the spectacularly unimportant task of refilling and controlling old case files. When he realized an important part of a file on a serial killer they had caught over twenty years ago was missing, he sighed. They hadn't come around to digitalize every file yet, which meant he wouldn't find the missing part in the computer, and the Chief Superintendent would make his life hell -

Mycroft. Of course. He was ready to bet the British Government had a copy of every important police report ever filed in Britain somewhere –

And it would, perhaps, give him the opportunity he'd been looking for.

He made his way to Mycroft's office – no one bothered to ask him where he was going, most of them ignored him anyway, only Dimmock nodded a greeting in passing – and got into the building by using his badge.

He smiled at Anthea and showed her the file, politely asking whether he could see Mycroft.

She didn't seem surprised, but then, she never did. She showed him inside immediately, confirming his suspicion that by now, he meant more to Mycroft than the British Government admitted; before Sherlock jumped (didn't jump, Greg still found it confusing) he would have been left waiting for at least half an hour while Mycroft finished whatever he was working on.

He stood up when Greg entered his office and the thought that he really must be as lonely as he appeared came unbidden into Greg's mind.

"What can I do for you?" Mycroft asked immediately, and Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes because it was clear Mycroft had already deduced everything (about the file, at least).

He explained and Mycroft nodded.

"I'll get it".

"Why not send Anthea?" Greg asked, baffled, and Mycroft sighed.

"Despite me showing them again and again that it is not a good idea to keep all old files" – he said "all" in a way that made clear Greg had better not ask "in the same location, the Ministry insists on because they consider renting more space a waste of money. Not even Anthea has the clearance for some of these files".

Greg nodded, and Mycroft added, "I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Sit down and don't touch anything".

It took Greg a moment to understand that this was actual Mycroft's version of a mischievous comment – there was a certain twinkle in his eyes that, albeit more subdued, reminded him of a certain someone. He smiled appropriately and, as soon as Mycroft left the room, went to his computer, not believing his luck when he saw that the elder Holmes hadn't logged out when he'd come in –

Apparently he trusted him more than he'd thought or dared to hope or feared (it was difficult to say which word to use), but Greg had no time to feel bad now. He quickly found out everything he could about the syndicate and sent the information. Mycroft's men had collected quite a lot of information and it took a while to send everything. He barely made it to the chair before Mycroft opened the door and gave him the file. Greg thanked him and noted how tired and run-down (for Mycroft anyway) he looked. Suddenly he found himself asking, "How about you come to my house tonight? I can cook something".

Luckily, Mycroft didn't find his invitation strange (but then, what did Mycroft Holmes find strange?) and agreed with a genuine smile.

Greg left the building, angry at himself. For all he knew, Mycroft considered that their friendship was growing stranger –

And he'd just stolen Government secrets from him.

**Author's note: What do you think about the direction this is taking? I like it, even though I have moments where I'm unsure.**

**Hope you enjoyed it, though. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: I got reviews! Hurray! Thank you. **

**I don't own anything. **

Only after he'd driven back and put the file – the complete file, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes – where it belonged did it hit him.

He had asked Mycroft Holmes to dinner. He had asked the British Government to dine at his house.

Dinner in itself wasn't a problem; he was a rather good cook (even his ex-wife admitted that she missed his pasta). But he'd out of the blue asked Sherlock's brother to dinner –

Sherlock's brother, who didn't know that he'd survived, who was still grieving for a living man, who he'd just betrayed –

Was this some sort of payback, he wondered. He'd let Sherlock down too, after all; maybe Fate had figured he deserved it.

Ho; the reason why he'd done it was much simpler. He and Mycroft were friends – sort of, no, not sort of, Mycroft had tried to joke with him, he definitely considered him a, if not his only friend, it was time he repaid the favour – and the elder Holmes had looked lonely and desperate and he'd wanted to make him feel better.

After he'd more or less broken every vow he'd made when he'd become a police officer.

Apparently Sherlock had that effect on people; he could think of more than one person (the list was rather long, and right at the top were John and Molly) who'd broken the law to help him. It was simply a part of being one of the few people Sherlock Holmes trusted.

Lying to ones friends though...

Not that he'd ever have foreseen it, this weird friendship, this strange connection he and Mycroft had come to share. It had just happened –

Just like Sherlock had happened to stumble across Moriarty. Greg could have stopped visiting the elder Holmes after he'd given him his condolences, but he hadn't. Just like Sherlock could have stopped chasing after Moriarty –

No. Neither of them could have stopped it because there was something drawing them closer and closer, and now here they were, Sherlock chasing after the consulting criminal's web and Greg trying to help the British Government come over the grief he shouldn't be feeling in the first place.

He and Sherlock weren't so different after all.

It was exactly this thought that prompted him to leave his office not so long after he'd returned to go shopping. Mycroft was used to good, if not excellent food; he'd have to find a very special pasta for him.

Thank God he did, and thank God nobody mentioned it when he arrived back at his office two hours later. He hadn't expected it; in fact, his career was more or less dead anyway, but if this was the price to pay for Sherlock being alive he'd gladly do so.

He shot a text off to John, to let him know that he'd once again answered Sherlock's demand, and kept refilling every scrap of paper he could find until five pm, when he decided that he'd spent enough time staring at dusty files and left.

It only then occurred to him that they hadn't really agreed on a time. Mycroft didn't even know when he was supposed to show up.

This problem, however, was resolved when his phone chimed and he read a text from the British Government, informing him that he would be at his flat at exactly seven pm.

Greg shook his head, not for the first time realizing that Mycroft had got all the control of the family. Sherlock was like a whirlwind, constantly moving, never stopping, hardly turning around. Mycroft was the glue that held it all together, the one who planned everything beforehand, but at the price of his spontaneity, the spontaneity Sherlock seemed to live for (how often had he sprinted after a criminal without telling anyone). In fact, before this afternoon, Greg couldn't remember Mycroft making a single joke.

He pushed those thoughts away and made the pasta, trying to distract himself with thoughts of –

Well, what exactly, that was the question. Once upon a time, he could have listened to the chatter of his wife, but he'd left her the evening Sherlock had told him about her infidelity. And ever since then – no, even before then, they hadn't really talked to each other for months – his life had turned around consulting detectives and ex-army doctors and British Governments, and somehow, he wouldn't have it any other way, no matter that he now had to lie to not one, but two of his closest friends and that he felt like he was slowly losing his sanity. Some things were worth going insane for, and Sherlock Holmes alive was definitely one of them.

Mycroft knocked at exactly seven pm. Greg hadn't expected anything different and let him in with a smile, feeling just how messy his flat was. The elder Holmes didn't notice it – or rather, pretended not to notice it.

He had brought brandy, of course his favourite expensive brand. Well at least they'd have something to do after dinner.

They ate mostly in silence, Mycroft only complementing the pasta now and then, Greg once again wondering why Mycroft had accepted the invitation to begin with. The British Government, eating in his flat. It all seemed so surreal.

He could simply have been polite, but he appeared to be – almost relaxed, sitting there at his small dining table in his small and messy kitchen. Not quite relaxed, of course not, this was Mycroft Holmes after all. Most people would not have seen any difference to his usual demeanour, but Greg had seen enough of the Holmes to recognize that his shoulders weren't as tense as they normally were.

Afterwards Mycroft insisted on helping with the dishes, as if this whole situation hadn't been absurd enough already. What would John and Sherlock say if he ever told them, Greg mused, that Mycroft had carefully wiped his dishes and glass clean with a towel before putting them into a cupboard that had definitely seen better days and then turned to take Greg's dish right out of his hands? Sherlock would probably snort and start playing his violin – an involuntary smirk appeared on his lips for a second, thankfully while Mycroft had his back towards him – and John –

He repressed a sigh. John had vilified Mycroft in his mind because he needed someone to blame besides a disappeared Moriarty. He needed someone to hate who was tangible, there, and sadly enough, he had chosen Sherlock's brother. Greg understood his reasons, would always understand them. But he still wished John wouldn't have picked Mycroft, of all people.

"John is entitled to his opinion, Greg" Mycroft said suddenly, and he all but jumped, giving him a guilty smile. His heart was razing. He had known that Mycroft could practically read his thoughts (just as well, if not better, than Sherlock), but it had never made him as uncomfortable. Because he'd never had a secret from – well, any Holmes, really.

He forced himself to relax – it might seem as if Mycroft could read his thoughts, but he wasn't able to do that, not really. He could only guess – no, deduce – what Greg was thinking, and for that to happen, he had to consider what he believed Greg possible of thinking. And Sherlock being alive hadn't crossed his mind – otherwise he would have had kidnapped all of Sherlock's friends in a flash, demanding information.

Greg smiled and shook his head, hoping that Mycroft would think he was uncomfortable because he'd been caught thinking about John and answered, "I know. I'm not angry with him. It's just – "

He stopped, unsure how to express what he was thinking. They didn't talk about Moriarty or Sherlock or his – disappearance. They never had, they never did, they most likely never would. They rarely talked about John.

Mycroft looked at him, nodded and went into the living room where he filled two glasses with brandy.

Greg sighed relieved and followed him. They sat down on the couch and after ten minutes of sipping quietly he had just convinced himself that this evening wouldn't be so different from the ones they usually shared, when Mycroft surprised him yet again.

"It's going to be nine months in three days" he announced, as politely and almost casually as if he was commenting on the weather. Nonetheless Greg knew what he meant. There was only thing he could mean. He didn't know what to say. He had suspected – been sure – convinced – that Mycroft was grieving, but until now he'd never said anything.

And it wasn't just that he'd finally alluded to Sherlock's death. His tone had been casual, but his eyes –

Greg had never seen so much emotion in them before.

Mycroft had decided to open up to him about Sherlock, now of all times. Trust the Holmes to always make things more complicated.

Greg realized must be waiting for a reaction and, just as casually, replied, "Yes. I know".

"I – " Mycroft began, than stopped, and the DI remembered that the elder Holmes wasn't used to talking about his feelings, had perhaps never done so before.

"I miss him to" he supplied and Mycroft looked confused for a moment before chuckling, actually chuckling. Greg was alarmed. He was about to ask what was going on when the British Government stopped laughing and said, "You keep surprising me, Greg" – and it was only then that he noticed that Mycroft had switched from the more formal "Gregory" to the name every called him by – "I would never have put it so – quite so – " he seemed to be searching for a word before finally ending with "blandly".

"You Holmes never do" Greg answered, only realizing his slip of the tongue when it was already too late. He had just referred to both brother in the present tense. Mycroft, thankfully, was so preoccupied with finally opening up to someone (and so trusting, so very trusting that Greg's heart clenched at the thought of what he'd done) that he didn't notice and just smiled in reply.

"That's true" he admitted before adding, "It's difficult some days. To remember. I was so used to look after him, there are moments where I still want to look at the surveillance footage of the day – "

Greg had long ago stopped considering Mycroft's way of looking after Sherlock weird, so he simply said, "I know. It is" this time he forced himself to use the correct tense, Mycroft wouldn't overhear his mistakes forever "difficult for me too. Sometimes when I hear about a case, I still take out my phone. I can't help it".

"He never picked up when I called" Mycroft said and Greg was confused for a moment until he realized what he meant. He had mentioned his phone. Of course Mycroft would immediately make another connection to whatever he said. The man was probably already five sentences ahead in their conversation, another similarity between the brothers.

"He just knew I'm no good with texts" Greg tried, knowing that Mycroft was aware of his blatant lie. It worked though, judging by the smirk on the British Government's face.

It dropped off as soon as it had come, though.

"It doesn't matter. I wouldn't have expected him to even talk to me, not after – " he visibly forced himself to go on. "I left him when I went to university and didn't really speak to him for years. And then, when I realized he had started taking drugs – I could have handled the situation better".

Greg wasn't surprised. He had known for years – from the beginning, really – that something must have gone wrong in the brother's relationship. So he simply nodded.

Mycroft was just opening his mouth – to elaborate or to change the subject, Greg didn't know – when there was a knock at the door.

Greg sprang up. "Excuse me" he said hastily, all but running to the front door, cursing himself.

He had known John came over on days he was in contact with Sherlock and yet he'd invited Mycroft. Mycroft who John considered Sherlock's archenemy, about whose friendship with Greg John knew nothing.

As if his day hadn't been difficult and surprising enough already.

**Author's note: I wanted John to show up sooner, and then I got caught up in the bromance. But here, have a longer chapter for being so patient with me over the last two days of short chapters. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: More followers! I'm so happy!**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Greg opened the door, managing a smile. Even though he'd hoped, against all reason, that it wasn't John who'd knocked, that it was his neighbour or landlord or anyone, really, the ex-army doctor was standing in front of him, looking him up and down before demanding, "What is it? You look – concerned".

The DI looked into the ex-army doctor's eyes and realized what he was talking about. He thought he'd got bad news from Sherlock, as if the consulting detective would ever let him know if something had gone wrong. But John looked panicked, and he quickly reassured him with a simple "No, all is fine".

John nodded, then asked, "So, are you going to let me in?"

Greg was still blocking the entrance with his body, wondering what he could do or say to make John leave, but knowing that there was nothing. The doctor knew he'd had contact with Sherlock today and wanted to read the texts over and over, as well as hear the story again and again.

Greg half-expected the elder Holmes to show up behind his back, but he didn't. Mycroft, it appeared, was still sitting on the sofa, hidden from John's view by the DI, and he was silent.

Mycroft was being considerate. He'd have to tell Sherlock about that at one point, he thought confusedly.

John, who had once been so patient when it came to Sherlock's antics and even Donavan's and Anderson's remark, decided he had waited long enough and simply pushed the DI aside, taking a few steps into the flat –

Only to stop like he'd suddenly been rooted to the spot.

Greg, who'd turned around at the exact moment Mycroft's and John's eyes met, couldn't see the latter's face since he faced the doctor's back; he had a good view of Mycroft though.

He saw the familiar deducing glance going up and down John's body, and then, just for a second, almost imperceptibly, Mycroft winced.

For a moment, Greg thought (as he was later to admit to himself, absurdly) that Mycroft hadn't wanted to meet John and was afraid, or at least uncomfortable. Then he realized and his heart, if possible, fell even further.

He was used to the new John Watson; despite him looking better than he had when he'd believed that Sherlock was dead, he was still thinner than before, but hadn't bothered to get new, fitting clothes, showing that he didn't care what he looked like; and there were bags under his eyes, proofing that he still had nightmares. Greg may not like these changes, but he had got used to them, seeing them happen before his very eyes. Mycroft, on the other hand, hadn't seen the doctor since the funeral (where John had made a point of standing as far away from him as possible. Mycroft had not commented on it, instead respecting his wishes) and even surveillance footage couldn't pick up everything. Also, with his deduction ability, he probably saw even more than Greg did, and he saw it all at once.

At any other time, Greg would perhaps have enjoyed the sight of a surprised Mycroft (even though probably the only other people to be able to see this surprise would have been Sherlock and Anthea, the looks and wince disappeared as quickly as they had come) but now he was rather preoccupied with worrying about John's reaction. He wasn't a Holmes; he couldn't deduce the expression on John's face by looking at Mycroft's. He could have walked in front of the doctor, stood between them, but he was unable to move.

Mycroft was the one to break the silence.

"John" he said, as smoothly as ever, nodding in greeting.

Unfortunately, this did nothing to break the tension, and John didn't react, aside from his hands clenching into fists. Greg swallowed. John had been a soldier, and he threw rather powerful punches. He could remember him almost breaking the Chief Superintendent's nose with a single blow. Mycroft undoubtedly knew some self-defence – he would hardly be the British Government if he didn't – but an angry, uncontrolled John Watson could do a lot of damage.

Mycroft seemed to think the same, although apparently he was more concerned about John than himself, and he shot Greg a quick glance. Before the DI could react, John finally exploded, the small exchange between them sending him over the edge.

Greg later used the term "explode" when thinking about this strange scene in his living room – Mycroft on the sofa, completely calm, John standing in front of him, his hands balled to fists, his whole body tense, Greg glued to his spot with his back to the still open door – because other people would have done so, but John did not start to scream or advance towards Mycroft.

Instead, he asked, very calmly, very quietly, "Greg, would you care to explain to me what is going on?"

Greg would have preferred screaming. He had only seen John like this a few times in the past – when Sherlock had done something (even by his standards) incredibly stupid that could have got him killed, after Sherlock's suicide – and he knew that this was John at his angriest. When he was just annoyed or upset, he started cursing or screaming, sometimes both; but this – this was a dangerous calmness. He was probably capable of seriously injuring Mycroft or Greg or both. Greg had to get him out of the flat and fast.

John turned around and Greg almost stumbled back when he saw the ferocious look in his eyes, but the doctor's voice stayed eerily calm.

"You haven't answered my question".

"John – " he began. He didn't know what he was going to say, he didn't even know if there was anything he could say to calm John down. Mycroft cleared his throat, preventing him from continuing and stood up, grabbing his umbrella (he always brought it with him, Greg had yet to ask why, but assumed it contained some sort of weapon – if he didn't do something quickly, he might have to use it, and on John of all people) and brushing some non-existent dust from his suit.

"I think it would be better for all concerned if I left..." he began, looking at Greg, and the DI realized Mycroft was asking if he would be alright. He was just about to nod – no matter how angry John was, he was still his only link to Sherlock, and he wasn't going to risk that – when John his voice losing something of its calm, said, "You are not going anywhere".

"As you wish" Mycroft answered politely, sitting back down. He must be of the opinion that to humour John was the best way to deescalate the situation, but Greg wasn't sure.

John hadn't turned around again when he spoke to Mycroft; he was still staring at Greg and the DI knew he wouldn't listen to reason until he had his explanation.

He decided to tell him the truth. John might be angry at first, but eventually he would (hopefully) see that they simply had different opinions and that it was fine –

"I'm waiting" John interrupted his musings, and Greg hastily began.

"I invited him to dinner".

It was probably not the best start because John obviously had trouble comprehending why he would do something as strange (to him, at least) as this.

"Mycroft and I are – " he paused, but only for a moment. Despite the secret he kept, despite him stealing Government information – he spent almost as much time with Mycroft as he did with John, and he was enjoying it. It was time to call things by their proper name.

"Friends" he finished, deliberately not looking at Mycroft's face.

John stared at him like he'd gone insane.

"Friends" he repeated slowly. "After all he did..."

"John" Greg interrupted him, patiently, "I don't think – "

"All this time?" John demanded, his voice growing louder. "Have you been – friends all this time?"

He spit the word "friends" like it left a bad taste in his mouth, but Greg ignored it and answered, "Yes. We've been friends for a while now".

Somehow, he knew what John was going to ask next and thankfully was prepared to interrupt him.

"Did you – "

"No" he replied, forcing himself to stay calm. Even if John thinking he would betray Sherlock's trust made him a little angry.

John looked like he was finally, finally about to scream, but then he shook his head, shoved Greg to the side and stormed out of the apartment. It all happened so fast that the Di had no time to react. Once he understood what had happened, he contemplated letting the doctor leave and wait for him to calm down, but then he realized that he couldn't. John was angry, not in his right mind, and he had to look after him. For Sherlock. He might run into any dangerous part of town or get hit by a car because he paid no attention to where he was going.

He had just come to this conclusion when Mycroft said, "Go after him. I'll wait".

He nodded without turning around and followed John.

Thank God the doctor had stopped in front of the building, pacing up and down, breathing heavily. So he was trying to calm himself down. Greg took this as a good sign and approached him.

"If you want to punch me" he said, trying to break the ice, "I understand. Please, though, don't make it too hard".

John almost smiled, only almost, but Greg would take what he could get.

"You could have told me" he said, and at least he didn't sound as aggressive as he had in the flat.

"I wasn't keen on the fight" Greg answered, softly. "I didn't want to – I didn't want to lose you."

John shook his head. "So you kept it a secret and hoped it wouldn't blow up into your face?"

"Something like that, yes."

"So, did you tell him?"

Greg swallowed down his anger – Sherlock didn't want anyone to know he was alive. He would never tell anyone.

"No. Of course not".

"I just thought – since you two – " John looked up at the window of Greg's living room "are obviously close – "

"Yes, we are friends, and I'm sorry if it upsets you, but this is how it is".

"I just – how?" John asked, genuinely puzzled.

Greg sighed. "He kidnapped me after the funeral. Regularly. It took me a while, but I realized he was just lonely – "

"He deserves it".

"No he doesn't" Greg argued. "He lost someone to – "

"Someone he didn't treat very well, to say the least" John shot back. "He left him alone and he didn't help with the drugs – "

Greg should have known that Sherlock would have told John everything. And he understood the resentment Sherlock must feel towards his brother. Still, he saw it differently, and nothing would change that.

"He had him under constant supervision, he kidnapped his friends" John said hotly, "And then – and then he – " he stopped and took a deep breath. "How can you ignore that he told Moriarty everything? If it hadn't been for him – "

"You could say the same thing about me" Greg interrupted him quietly. John shook his head.

"You were forced to act – by Donavan, by Anderson, by the Chief Superintendent. He did what he did perfectly voluntarily".

"He had his reasons, I'm sure" Greg answered.

"There is no reason for betraying Sherlock".

"I don't think it can be called "betrayal"".

This was the final straw for John, apparently, because he shot him such a furious look that this time, Greg took an involuntary step back.

"I'm beginning to see" John said slowly, carefully pronouncing every word so Greg would not lose a syllable of what he was about to say "why Sherlock could never remember your first name".

Greg recoiled as if John had slapped him, and in a way, he had.

The parting blow delivered, John turned around and left without another word. Greg had no inclination to follow him this time and turned around, slowly making his way back into his flat.

Mycroft stood up when he went in, proving that he must indeed look as bad as he felt. John's comment had hurt, much more than he would have thought it would. Much more than it should have.

"Greg? What did he say?"

"It's not important".

"It obviously is."

"I don't want to talk about it" he said firmly and Mycroft understood, refilling both their glasses with brandy.

The thought that it was getting rather late and that he had to work tomorrow flashed briefly across Greg's mind.

He decided he didn't care and emptied his glass, indicating he wanted a refill.

**Author's note: Angst and bromance. What could be better?**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: This chapter is going to be very short, I fear. But I can promise you bromance and angst, so I hope that makes up for it.**

**A thank you to the new followers. **

**I don't own anything, please review.**

Greg woke up with a hangover, as was to be expected – he and Mycroft had finished the bottle of brandy the older Holmes had brought. At least he could remember everything that had happened and he had never been a talkative drunk. Mycroft, of course, had held his liquid far better.

It was almost ten am, and he called the station from his bedroom – he wouldn't be able to work anyway, there was no use coming in.

He recalled going to bed and offering Mycroft the sofa. The last thing he would have expected was the British Government making coffee in his kitchen.

Mycroft simply smiled and gave him a cup as a greeting. He thankfully accepted and sat down at the kitchen table.

"So you decided to call in sick today".

He looked up, astonished.

"Yes, I did. How did you – "

"Your walls aren't as thick as you think they are" Mycroft answered, obviously trying to be funny. Greg did his best to act like he was amused by his comment, even though his head hurt. Mycroft, for spending the night on his sofa, looked as well-rested and perfect as he always had, and Greg wondered if he'd even slept at all. He certainly couldn't remember him acting inebriated – then again, he would know how to hold his brandy.

"Not that I mind, the coffee's welcome, but shouldn't you be at work saving the world or something?"

"Anthea can take care of it for a few hours".

Greg nodded. When Mycroft turned around, he bit his lip, wondering not for the first time whether he should just tell him. The elder Holmes had stayed and tried to be comforting (and partly succeeded) after John had left. He had been a true friend.

Which made everything so much worse.

Finally he and Mycroft were friends – there was no other way of putting it – and yet, here he was, betraying –

But if he told Mycroft, he would betray Sherlock's trust.

"I'm sure John will call you within the next two hours" Mycroft interrupted his musings, and Greg realized he was being comforting again.

He smiled and nodded, unable to say anything. What had John said yesterday?

There is no reason to betray Sherlock.

He was right. Greg couldn't do it.

Mycroft left soon afterwards, and they decided to have dinner again – this time at his house – in two days' time.

As it turned out, the elder Holmes had been wrong for once in his life.

John didn't call; he came. It was within the next two hours, though, which was fine by Greg. At least he didn't have to worry about the world ending because Mycroft hadn't been right about everything.

Somehow, Greg knew who it was as soon as the doctor knocked at the door.

He opened it cautiously. He wasn't sure if John wanted to apologize or to punch him after all, but one look at his friend's face (John would always be his friend, no matter what) told him that the doctor had spent an awful night.

He'd either had a nightmare or not slept at all, judging by the dark circles under his eyes, and he hadn't changed his clothes. In fact, it looked like he hadn't been home at all.

"I'm sorry" he said, his voice quiet. "I just – I saw Mycroft and – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said – "

"It's alright" Greg answered, even though it wasn't, not really, but he couldn't bear to see John like this, and there were more important things at stake than his ego. John looked almost as broken as he had when Sherlock had died.

He let him in and told him everything he'd done yesterday (after giving him tea, of course; John without tea in the morning was about as unusual as Mycroft without an umbrella). John was impressed, even though it had had more to do with luck than anything else.

"Do you think he'll be done anytime soon?" John suddenly asked, and Greg didn't know what to answer. It was obvious what John wanted. John wanted reassurance, John wanted hope. But he couldn't give him that, not yet. Sherlock never wrote anything personal – not since that first text, and that could hardly be called that, since he'd only answered Greg's question. He never wrote what he was doing exactly, or where he was; Greg had to find out through the information he gathered. Neither did he let him know how he was doing, which really was all he cared about. Strange as it was – his friend was doing God knew what and all he wanted was to know he was okay – but it was the truth.

John, though, wasn't asking for the truth. But Greg wasn't prepared to give him a lie. Sherlock might not come back; he was fighting against so many criminals, and all alone. Normally, Greg forced the thought away as soon as it occurred to him, but now he deliberately clung to it. He would not give John false hope, no matter how much he wanted to. He had seen too much in his line of work to know what delusive hope could do to a person. And he wouldn't allow John to lose everything for the second time in his life.

"I don't know" he said honestly therefore, and John's shoulders slumped. Greg put a hand on his arm.

"What I do know, however" he added, "is that he is doing everything he can to return."

The thought seemed to brighten John up a bit, and he nodded.

"About Mycroft..." he started, and Greg winced. Since the initial "I'm sorry" they hadn't talked about their fight, and he would have preferred never to talk about it again. John, however, always wanted to talk about everything.

"Mates are mates" John said firmly, forcing the words out, "And really – I'm not the one to talk about strange friendships now, am I".

Greg grinned; he couldn't help himself.

"That may be, but don't forget, I have two such friends now".

"God help you".

And then they were laughing. Greg hadn't seen John laugh like this since before Sherlock's disappearance, and it was good to see the doctor like this again. He didn't doubt that Sherlock would appreciate it too.

"Oh God" John suddenly cried.

"What is it?"

"I only just realized – Sherlock's reaction!" And they laughed even harder, because John was right; Sherlock's reaction to Greg's and Mycroft's friendship would be priceless when –

Greg realized he'd just though "when", not "if" he returned. He was the one clinging to the delusive hope, apparently. This sobered him and he took a deep breath, but smiled at John to let him know all was well.

All was well. For about five seconds.

Then Greg got a text.

_I would appreciate it if you came to my office as quickly as possible._

_Mycroft Holmes._

**Author's note: What do you think about how I write John? I'm showing him rather broken, and I'm unsure if it's too dark.**

**Again, sorry for the length. **

**I hope you liked it. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: This chapter something is actually going to happen. Oh, and bromance.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

„What is it?" John asked immediately.

Greg knew that he must look pale. He tried to speak, but found he couldn't, and simply shook his head.

"Greg?" John sounded almost panicked now, and of course he knew why. He might be holding his own phone in his hands, and not the burn phone he'd bought to communicate with Sherlock, but that wouldn't make any difference for John. The doctor thought he'd got bad news from Sherlock.

"It's Mycroft" he finally managed to say, "He wants to see me in his office".

John frowned. "Do you think he – "

"I have no idea" Greg answered honestly. Mycroft might have found out what he had done – or he'd just decided he needed to see him; neither of the Holmes had ever cared much for explanations.

If Mycroft had found out, however –

What would he do?

John seemed to think the same; he swallowed and said, "He's not going to blame you". He obviously tried to sound reassuring, but it came out as more of a question. Greg shrugged his shoulders.

He couldn't imagine how Mycroft would react, even though he'd seen a lot of him in the past few months. If the brothers had one thing in common, it was their unpredictability; Mycroft might be his usual polite self, or he could make certain no one would ever find Greg's body.

"I guess I'll have to find out" he finally replied and stood up.

John did the same, asking "Do you want me to come with you?"

Greg shook his head. "Mycroft wants me to come immediately, and I have the feeling he wouldn't appreciate it if I brought someone with me".

John nodded. He left him at his front door, making him promise to call as soon as "it was over", although not elaborating what he meant.

Greg wondered whether he would be able to call after this interview, but shoved the thought away.

He drove to Mycroft's office and this time no one even asked for his ID. Apparently Mycroft had given order that he should be brought to him as quickly as possible. At least he wasn't treated like a prisoner or criminal, which gave him some hope.

Anthea greeted him politely and told him to go in.

He did. Mycroft was sitting at his desk, for once not working but simply staring at his computer screen. He was frowning, but this was hardly a reason to worry; before they had become friends, Greg had never really seen him smile.

"Gregory" he greeted him, and now it was Greg's turn to frown. Not only had Mycroft gone back to calling him by his real first name – but the tone of voice he'd used – Greg recognized it. It was the tone the elder Holmes reserved for his employees or acquaintances. When he'd talked to Greg in the previous months, he'd used another tone.

Not a good sign, he decided. Definitely not.

"Mycroft" he said as casually as he could, "What do you need?"

There was no use in even trying to ignore that Mycroft had all but ordered him to come.

"Why did you look up a file?" Mycroft was polite as always, his voice betraying no emotion, completely different from the one who had made Greg coffee only a few short hours ago.

Greg was about to answer that he wasn't allowed to tell him – which Mycroft certainly wouldn't appreciate, but he felt he owed Sherlock to at least attempt to keep his secret – when he realized something.

He didn't know how to deduce people, and Mycroft was almost impossible to read, but he was so calm – too calm for only having found out what he'd done – and it had been easy, so unbelievably easy...

"You knew" he stated. He waited for a confirmation that never came, then continued.

"You knew the moment I came into your office that I wanted something. Something other than your help with a file. You didn't log out on purpose".

Mycroft nodded, and Greg wondered if he had imagined the short flash of pride in the British Government's eyes.

"You had been acting tense for a while. I hope you don't mind me saying it, Gregory, but you are rather easy to read. In fact, you might be the worst liar I have ever come across – and I have come across many in my time".

"I bet" Greg mumbled, his mind racing. Mycroft had known something was up. Mycroft had left him alone in his office on purpose. Mycroft had –

For lack of a better word, Mycroft had experimented on him.

The question now was what to do. Sherlock didn't want anyone to know he was alive; but if Mycroft suspected him to be and asked Greg this exact question, he wouldn't be able to hide the truth. Not with the elder Holmes declaring him to be the worst liar ever.

"So, why? And why this file?"

"Haven't you deduced it yet?" Greg asked, surprised at how bitter his voice sounded. He might just have lost two friends, though, so he supposed he was allowed to be a little angry with Fate.

Mycroft cocked his head to his right side in a gesture that distinctly reminded the DI of his brother and scrutinized for a moment before admitting, "No. I can't. There is no reason you would need it for work, and all other hypotheses are equally unlikely, making it difficult to choose the right one".

Greg barely managed not to laugh; so there were limits to the Science of Deduction. In the next moment, he remembered what was going on and swallowed.

Mycroft wouldn't let it go, and he wouldn't be able to lie to him – especially since he had no idea what "the other hypotheses" were that the elder Holmes had come up with, therefore he couldn't use one of them and hope against hope that he would believe him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, showing his impatience, and Greg cleared his throat and said the first thing that came to his mind.

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth".

It was one of Sherlock's favourite quotes – out of some nineteenth-century true-crime magazine, or something like that – and Greg had heard it so often that he could have recited it in his sleep.

It wasn't exactly an answer, but neither was it exactly telling Mycroft Sherlock's secret. True, it would probably make no difference to the consulting detective if he had told Mycroft or giving him hints to figure it out, but it made Greg feel better.

Mycroft sighed. "I just told you..."

"They can't all be "equally improbable" Greg said quietly.

He watched Mycroft closely. He needed only a few moments to go over all possibilities – of course – and he would always swear that he had seen when exactly he'd come to the right conclusion.

Greg had come to know almost every facial expression of Mycroft's over time, but he had never seen him shocked.

Until now.

Sherlock would undoubtedly appreciate seeing his brother like this – his mouth half-open, his eyes wide, unable to speak – but Greg was concerned.

"Mycroft?"

The British Government tried to speak, couldn't, cleared his throat and tried again, the colour slowly returning to his face.

"Am I right?"

It was calmly said, but the hands that lay on his desk were balled into fists. He hadn't told Greg about what he was supposed to be right, but he didn't need to. There was only one possibility that could produce this reaction.

"Yes" he said simply.

Mycroft swallowed and forced his hands to relax.

"Sherlock is alive".

"Yes".

"And hunting down Moriarty's web".

Of course Mycroft would come to this conclusion immediately; he probably knew all about the web of the consulting criminal. It was his job after all.

"That's our hypothesis, yes".

He only realized what he'd said when Mycroft shot him another deducing glance.

"John knows?"

"He was the one to figure it out".

Mycroft tapped on his desk with the fingers of his right hand, and Greg realized that he was impressed. It wouldn't be the first time someone had underestimated John Watson. He'd done it himself when he'd seen him at the fourth crime scene of A Study in Pink.

"I didn't know he was so – " Mycroft began tentatively. Greg interrupted him.

"Desperate. He was desperate. When he told me for the first time – I thought he'd gone crazy".

"A reasonable assumption. How did he deduce it?"

"He must have spent hours surfing the internet, looking at crimes that had been solved, gangs that had been disbanded, killers that had been brought to justice. He only showed me the newspaper articles after he'd accumulated enough to make me believe him".

"And then?"

Greg swallowed. Nor came the difficult part. He had to tell Mycroft that not only did he know Sherlock was alive, but sending him information on a regular basis –

In other words, he had to tell Mycroft that his brother didn't trust him.

"Greg, whatever it is, I'm sure I can take it" Mycroft announced, and the DI saw that all traces of shock had disappeared from his face. Mycroft Holmes was and always would be the master of self-control.

"We've been texting each other".

Mycroft frowned. "You used burn phones?"

"Yes – after the first text."

Mycroft nodded. "What does he..." he stopped, apparently not knowing how to continue, and Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Mycroft obviously wanted to know if his brother was alright. Couldn't he for once just ask?

"He demands information. I send him the information. That's it".

Mycroft nodded again, looking down at his desk, and replied, "So that's why you needed the file. I doubt the police knew anything about this particular syndicate".

"Exactly. He told me to get it from you".

Mycroft looked up, almost looking surprised, and Greg added, "Sort of."

There was a new light in Mycroft's eyes, and it gave Greg a pang that this was most likely because his brother had mentioned him.

"I assume he asked that his survival be kept secret".

"Not really, but that was hardly necessary. If he wanted people to know, he'd contact them".

"I suppose" Mycroft finally answered. He stood up and walked over to the window, even though Greg was sure he saw nothing of what was going on outside.

"How long?" he finally asked and Greg realized that they had finally arrived at the subject he would much rather avoid.

"A little longer than three weeks."

Mycroft didn't answer and Greg just stood rooted in front of Mycroft's desk. He didn't know what to say.

"I wanted to tell you" he finally began, although it sounded weak to his ears, "but John was adamant that we shouldn't".

"I can imagine" Mycroft answered, still with his back to Greg.

Another long silence followed before he asked, "When he texts the next time... will you tell me?"

"Of course" Greg answered immediately.

"Will you tell him that I know?"

"Of course" he repeated, only to realize his mistake a second later. He hadn't even thought about hiding the news from Sherlock.

But he had readily lied to Mycroft.

"Mycroft – "

"No, no, Gregory, of course he has to know" Mycroft said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "He'll get the information he needs much more quickly, after all".

Greg knew a dismissal when he heard it. He sighed, said goodbye – receiving a polite nod in return – and left, ignoring Anthea's worried glance (he must look rather bad if even Mycroft's assistant let her mask drop).

At least Mycroft wasn't going to go after Sherlock like John had feared.

But it seemed that neither was his and Greg's relationship going to be the same.

**Author's note: I know, you all saw it coming. But this is Mycroft – I couldn't leave him in the dark any longer. And it's angsty bromance! Hurray!**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: More reviews! Yay!**

**Because someone asked: No, this story is not going to be slash. It's just bromance. **

**This story won't be much longer. I think the next chapter is going to be the last, although I am not sure.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

As soon as Greg left the building, he called John.

He didn't give the doctor any time to say anything, he simply said, as soon as he'd picked up, "He knows".

He could almost hear John pale on the other end of the phone (well aware that both Sherlock and Mycroft would be appalled that he'd thought he could "hear someone pale") and hastened to add, "He's not going to go after him".

"You're sure?" John was scared, he could tell, but at least he was trying his best not to sound too sceptical, not wanting to drive a wedge between him and Mycroft. As íf that was necessary.

"Yes. I am sure. He asked me to tell him when Sherlock texts next..." he trailed off, expecting John to be delighted and hang up.

Instead, the doctor demanded, "What happened?"

"What do you mean?" he asked stupidly, not believing that John would actually care about his relationship with Mycroft.

In the next moment, he was ashamed of himself, because John continued, "Is he angry with you?"

"It's difficult to say" he answered honestly, because he really couldn't say. He knew Mycroft as well as anyone could know the British Government – except for Sherlock and Anthea – but as to what he was thinking...

"It's a lot to take in" John replied, obviously sensing his uncertainty, "his brother is alive, out there, fighting Moriarty's web – "

"I know that" he almost spat before shaking his head and saying, "I'm sorry, John. It's just –"

"Trust me, I know". John's cheerfulness sounded a bit forced, but he would take what he could get. "Being friends with a Holmes is never easy".

No one knew this better than Greg – he had known Sherlock longer, if not better, than John had, but he refrained from telling him so – and he simply said, "I know."

John laughed and Greg joined in, although they both didn't feel like it. They hung up afterwards. No goodbye was necessary. At least between John Watson and Greg Lestrade, everything was alright.

As to Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes – he wasn't sure.

Although he had been convinced that everything was over, that their friendship that (as he'd realized then) he'd come to depend upon was a thing of the past, now he couldn't say with certainty that it was so.

How had John put it?

"It's a lot to take in". Mycroft Holmes wasn't normal by anyone's standards, but he was still a man who'd believed his brother to be dead until Greg had entered his office, so maybe he did need some time to let everything sink in.

And, not to forget, Mycroft was not only a very logical man, he also understand normal human beings (something his brother always had had trouble with) and he would comprehend Greg's dilemma –

Would he? In the last few days, Greg had seen an entirely different side of Mycroft; an entirely human side that he just knew not many people were aware even existed. And this side would be angry, and feel betrayed, and –

Until this moment, Greg hadn't realized how much the British Government had come to mean to him.

It might be because he and Mycroft were somehow another team that had just clicked, like Sherlock and John; another pair of friends that had found each other when they needed it the most. And now he could very well lose this friendship, this weird, almost impossible friendship that had come out of nowhere.

Looking back at the decisions he'd made, though –

He would always choose Sherlock, because that was what one did when one had got involved in the consulting detective's life. Sherlock Holmes had a way of pulling you in, making you a part of his battle until you couldn't help bit fight along. And now, he could never give him up. The months in which he'd believed him to be dead had certainly proven that.

However –

He would always regret Mycroft's friendship. Not only for him, but for the elder Holmes too. How many people did he trust? How many people had he trusted in the course of his life? How many friends had he had?

Considering that he'd always been suspicious of Sherlock's friends and kept himself at a distance from – anyone, not many.

Greg decided that he simply wouldn't allow Mycroft to walk away from this friendship. He had tracked down Sherlock years ago, just to offer him a job (unofficially, but still), and now he would be running after his brother. As far as he was concerned, it didn't make much of a difference.

Thankfully enough, he was invited to his house for dinner the day after tomorrow. He had no doubt that Mycroft didn't expect him to attend, but he would.

He spent the next two days working. While the Chief Superintendent would certainly never allow him to work a new case – at least not until Sherlock returned, and he had to admit that the thought of Mycroft knowing and helping him filled him with irrational hope – he didn't want to spend too many days away from his office. Donavan might get ideas.

He sent Sherlock a text, informing him that his brother had found out, and getting a simple answer:

_I expected he would at some point._

He sighed, relieved. At least he would be able to tell Mycroft that Sherlock had nothing against him helping –

He couldn't help but suspect that, on some level, Sherlock had wanted his brother to find out. Sherlock cared about Mycroft and needed his help, he just didn't want to admit it.

John called him several times, telling him he just wanted to "talk", and Greg tried his best to make him see that he wasn't responsible for – well, for anything, really. John had wanted to help Sherlock, and that was a good enough reason for Greg to forgive him (at least that was what he told the doctor; he didn't really think there was anything to forgive).

In a way, it was both normal and strange to have John care so much that he and Mycroft had had –

Had he and Mycroft even had a fight? It was difficult to say. He was, on the contrary, rather sure that one could not fight with Mycroft Holmes.

Anyway, he would find out tonight.

Mycroft opened the door less than a minute after Greg had knocked, which told him that not only was the British Government not all that angry with him – although he certainly was a little bit – but also that he had, against his protestations to the contrary, been waiting for him.

They ate in silence, Greg simply keeping Mycroft company.

Finally the British Government decided to speak.

"Did you tell him?"

"Yes. It's – " Greg remembered what Sherlock and John used to say in situations like this and smiled. "It's all fine".

Mycroft smiled back. All was indeed fine.

Greg's phone rang. It was John.

"Hello, John."

"Hello, Greg – I – sorry, I forgot you were at Mycroft's – "

"No problem, what is it?" Greg asked. John sounded positively cheerful.

"I'm at Baker Street".

"Really?"

"Yes. I thought – you know, someone has to keep the flat in order until Sherlock comes back. Make sure Mrs. Hudson doesn't throw away any of his things".

Greg chuckled and bade him greet Mrs. Hudson before saying goodbye.

Mycroft almost grinned when he told him the news.

"I'll get the brandy, shall I?"

**Author's note: Sorry for short chapter. It seemed right to end it there. Like I said, the next chapter is probably going to be the last. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: Here's the last chapter.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

It felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulder. Not only were neither Sherlock nor Mycroft angry with him, but John had come to terms with his and the latter's friendship as well.

True, it was still not easy for the doctor to see Mycroft, which was why Greg had to organize his meetings with them; but since it had been years since he'd had enough friends to even attempt it, he wasn't complaining.

He kept both John and Mycroft informed of every text that arrived. Sherlock still only texted the burn phone he had purchased for this exact purpose, which made Greg fear that what the consulting detective was doing was even more dangerous than he had realized at first. If he didn't want to risk texting the man who must have the safest phone in the UK directly...

He didn't share his fears with the other two men; they didn't really talk about Sherlock, except when he'd once again asked for information anyway.

It would simply hurt John too much, Greg was sure. The doctor was once again living in Baker Street (being looked after by Mrs. Hudson, for which Greg was immensely grateful – he still wasn't the man he'd been before Sherlock's disappearance). But all he did was waiting.

There was no other word for it; Greg didn't think that he could call it "living". John spent his days waiting for Sherlock to come back, making sure his violin was dust free, staring at the skull on the mantelpiece that Mrs. Hudson, despite her obvious dislike for it, just hadn't found the heart to throw away, checking the internet for more articles so he could follow Sherlock's progress even better.

At least he smiled more and he slept better. He'd also put on a bit of the weight he'd lost, although the weight loss was still noticeable.

Sometimes, Greg wondered how many nights he spent listening, waiting for a key in the front door.

So they didn't talk about Sherlock; not much, at least. They talked about football and Mike Stamford and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. If Mrs. Hudson didn't sit next to them in her kitchen in Baker Street, of course; as soon as John had moved back in she'd made a point of telling him he should ask Greg over. She was even nicer to him than she'd always been, obviously thinking that he, like John, was grieving.

It wasn't easy, lying to her, especially since he'd hoped not to have to lie and act again so soon after being freed from this obligation regarding Mycroft, but he dealt with it, mostly because Mrs. Hudson was tougher than she looked and had taken Sherlock's death as well as she could – she mostly seemed to be angry, and Greg wouldn't want to be Sherlock when he returned.

Even he would probably be tempted to punch him, now that he thought about it, although John would certainly gladly do it himself.

With Mycroft, not talking about Sherlock was just natural. They had never talked about the younger Holmes after his disappearance, although it was all they had talked about before, and Greg thought it would stay this way.

Once again, Mycroft surprised him.

One evening, about two months after the elder Holmes had found out, they were sitting in Mycroft's living room. Greg had sent Sherlock some information this afternoon.

Mycroft broached the subject after dinner. In his typical fashion, he didn't raise or alter his voice in any way, simply said, "I assume Sherlock is on the hit man's heels by now".

"Yes" Greg answered, slightly taken aback – a moment ago, they'd been talking about the fact that all of Sherlock's cases had finally been re-examined and it had been proven that he'd been right, meaning that the Chief Superintendent had had no choice but to put Greg off desk duty – "Yes, I think so".

Mycroft said nothing, but now that he'd finally mentioned his brother, Greg dared ask a question he'd been wondering about for some time – since he'd learned Sherlock was alive, really.

"How long do you think it will take him?"

Mycroft tilted his glass and watched the brandy roll from one side to another. Greg recognized this as the British Government's version of a shrug and assumed he wouldn't get an answer until Mycroft began, "It's a big web".

He was obviously debating with himself whether or not to say more, and Greg was silent.

Finally, he added, "To dismantle it completely – and without help – will take quite some time, I'm afraid."

"He's already –"

"It's been almost a year, Greg – and I fear it could take him several more".

"What?" Greg all but shouted.

This time, Mycroft actually chose to shrug his shoulders. He sighed. "It would be easier if I were to help him, of course; if we all were to help him. But he has to be careful – if John has found the pattern, so most likely have the other parts of the web. And there are enough eyes on me already."

Greg nodded; he supposed every Secret Service (he was referring to the ones not run by him, of course) in the world knew about Mycroft Holmes. And, since they were both friends of Sherlock's, Moriarty's former associates would undoubtedly keep an eye on him and John.

"I still don't like it" he answered. Mycroft laughed a short, bitter laugh.

"I don't either. But this is how it is".

Greg nodded again, well aware that Mycroft cared, despite his calm demeanour. Not to be able to help the brother he'd watched over since he'd been a child must be frustrating. And Mycroft Holmes certainly wasn't used to feeling helpless.

"Here's to him dealing with it quickly, then" he finally said, raising his glass. Mycroft did the same and smiled.

Sadly, Mycroft had been right with his guess.

It took Sherlock two more years. Two more years of John living a half-life, two years of visiting the grace of a living man to keep up some resemblance of grief, two years of cases Sherlock would have loved, two years of sending him information, two years of talking to John and Mycroft and doing his best to keep their spirits up. Two years of nights where he couldn't sleep, staring at the ceiling, fearing that the day would come when he'd realize that he hadn't got a text for one month, two months, until he would have to admit to himself that Sherlock wouldn't return. Two years of always, always carrying the burn phone in his pocket or it lying beside his bed (even if he forgot his normal phone, he never forgot it). Two years of hoping and despairing and praying and lying and acting and waiting, always waiting. For that next text to come. For the one text to come he was waiting for.

A little bit over three years after Sherlock had disappeared it came.

Of course it came when he least expected it too. He was busy trying to solve Ronald Adair's murder. Sherlock would not only have enjoyed, but already solved the case, he was certain.

Just after Donavan – who'd not only been very polite to him ever since he was allowed back on cases, but also had stopped to referring to Sherlock as "the freak" on the few occasions she mentioned him – had left his office with instructions, the burn phone chimed.

He took it out immediately, not really paying attention because he'd got so sued to the mention and the always same-sounding texts.

He was wondering whether he should go over the witness statements again while he read the text.

In the next moment, all thoughts about the case just flew out the window.

_I'm with John at Baker Street. Will require your assistance tonight to capture Colonel Sebastian Moran, murderer of Ronald Adair._

Just that. Nothing else. Although, knowing Sherlock, he hadn't really expected different.

Still he needed a few minutes to fully comprehend what had happened. Sherlock was home. Sherlock was at Baker Street, with John. Sherlock Holmes had finally returned.

He could have screamed it, let all the world know what was going on. But he couldn't. Sherlock obviously wasn't back yet officially, otherwise Mycroft –

Mycroft.

He immediately called his friend.

Before he could even utter a greeting, he'd blurted out, "Sherlock's back. He's at Baker Street".

A moment of silence followed. Then Mycroft said, "I know. He called me an hour ago. He wanted to tell you himself".

Greg laughed out of sheer relief because he couldn't help it. He was happier than he'd been in three years.

"So" he said, "Colonel Moran". It was useless to pretend Mycroft didn't know what his brother was up to. He'd have known the moment he saw Sherlock.

"Yes. Sherlock is planning on capturing him tonight. I am sure he will send you more information soon".

"So am I" Greg said and they ended the conversation. He hadn't asked how Sherlock was, how he looked, if he'd changed, and Mycroft hadn't told him, because a friendship with a Holmes (two Holmes, he could finally acknowledge it again) didn't work like that.

As Mycroft had predicted, Sherlock sent him the address – the building Moriarty had all but blown up all those years ago, the one opposite 221B – and a time, assuring him that they would only have to wait outside for his signal.

He simply told Donavan that they were needed and left it to her to assemble a team.

He had been on many stakeouts over the years, but these were the longest two hours of his life. Not because he was worried – with John by his side, there wasn't much that could go wrong, and Moran was alone – but he needed to see Sherlock. He needed to see with his own eyes that he had returned.

Before the signal came a shot; a window of 221B shattered. Apparently Sherlock had managed to get some sort of model in the flat. Moran had obviously just tried to kill him.

At the signal – one of them flashing a light in the window of the flat Moriarty had planted the bomb in – Greg started running and didn't stop until he laid eyes on the consulting detective.

Moran was sitting on the floor in handcuffs, Sherlock and John standing next to him.

A part of Greg registered the forming bruise on Sherlock's cheek and realized John had already punched him so he wouldn't have to do it; a part of him saw that Sherlock had got even thinner; a part of him was aware that he looked pale and exhausted. But a bigger part of him didn't care, and before either of them could say anything, he had hugged Sherlock, who tentatively hugged him back.

He turned around to face Donavan, who was doing a rather good impression of a goldfish, and ordered her to have the captive brought to the station.

"Sherlock" he said as soon as they had left, "It's good to see you".

He hadn't expected an answer, but Sherlock swallowed and said, quietly, "You too, Greg".

It was Greg's turn to swallow. Sherlock had remembered his first name. He looked at John, who grinned, and felt a grin break out on his own face. Sherlock grinned too, and then they were laughing, because they were together, because it was over. There would be a time for explanations; there would be a time for stories about texts and brandy and information and files; for now, they were just happy to be together again.

"I see you reacted appropriately" he told John, indicating Sherlock's bruise.

John chuckled. "That's nothing. You should have heard Mrs. Hudson".

Mycroft was waiting in front of the building, discreetly standing in the back. Not one of them was surprised.

"Sherlock" he greeted his brother, "Greg, John". He stopped, unsure of how to proceed, apparently. Finally he cleared his throat.

"I was wondering whether you would like to get something to eat".

Greg expected Sherlock to make a comment about Mycroft's weight and decline; instead the younger Holmes looked from Sherlock to John, a silent communication taking place, and answered, "Good. Angelo's, then."

And the four made their way to the restaurant, Greg walking beside Mycroft, realizing that his life was going to get stranger once again –

He couldn't wait.

**Author's note: Last chapter. I hope you enjoyed this fic – I certainly had fun writing it. God I love bromance.**

**Please review and tell me what you thought.**

**I wish you all the best of days,**

**Hekate. **


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